“Guardian…”

“Guardian…”

After the noise has died down, Misraaks scans the room. His eyes come to rest on the Hunter, standing in the center of a dozen splayed-out Eliksni corpses, and wiping blood from its visor for what seems like the hundredth time.

“I… I appreciate that we are at war,” the Kell pauses to find the words, to find exactly what it is he is feeling in this moment. “A war for the future of our peoples, and of our universe. But…”

He pauses once again, his eyes drifting back over the young, malnourished bodies of his former kin. “But the cruelty — no, the effortlessness with which you employ cruelty to kill my fellow Eliksni…”

Misraaks releases a slow breath. The Guardian is staring at him, its flat helmeted face entirely expressionless - a cold expanse of white splashed with reddish purple.

“It brings to me a feeling of unease. Not one that is necessarily of your own fault, rather, but nonetheless. These were my people once, and for each youngling with docked arms that is slain…” the Eliksni looks away, concerning himself not to show too much emotion in front of the human. “I wonder if they could have been saved. If we could have taken them in. Fed them. Helped them grow into something more.”

He looks back at the Guardian, who is motionless for a moment, hand cannon still in hand. Then,

“I’m sorry,” comes a cold, filtered voice out of the recesses behind the helmet.

Misraaks nods and turns toward the door. “Let us continue.”

The Guardian did not sound sorry at all.